


Purple

by upriserseven



Series: C-53 (or, maybe, Home) [1]
Category: Captain Marvel (2019)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 09:34:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18118109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/upriserseven/pseuds/upriserseven
Summary: It’s only been seven months, and you were expecting it to be a lot longer before you saw her face again but God, you’re glad she’s here. Even if she’s covered in blood and very nearly blew a hole in your front porch, seeing her makes your heart do that thing it’s always done when she’s around, and you remember how thankful you are that that’s still possible, no matter how complicated it may be.





	Purple

**Author's Note:**

> It's been over two years since I wrote a single word that wasn't academic and here I am, at 4am, completing the longest one-shot I've ever written. 
> 
> Almost definitely not the last thing I write for these two because let's be honest, I've only seen it three times and there's a lot more where this came from.

You remember when Monica learned about colours. She’d spend hours asking about combinations, trying to figure out what would happen if she mixed yellow and purple, or pink and brown. You’re not sure exactly who it was teaching her, if it was you or Carol or a combination of the two. A lot of things about that day are hazy now, but you remember both of their faces lighting up and the splitting grins they shared while Carol tried to work out the stranger colour equations Monica threw at her.

Blue and red, though. That makes purple, you know that. For some reason, this is the thought running through your mind while you furiously scan the blood smeared across Carol’s face, spread across her suit. You know she has Kree blood, which is blue. And maybe still human, too, and that’s red. Blue and red should make purple, but all you can see is inky black and you don’t know what that means.

“It’s not mine.” Honestly, your eyebrow raises on its own as you look at her, and you can’t help but laugh when she flashes you a sheepish grin and adds, “well, not all of it anyway.”

It’s only been seven months, and you were expecting it to be a lot longer before you saw her face again but God, you’re glad she’s here. Even if she’s covered in blood and very nearly blew a hole in your front porch, seeing her makes your heart do that _thing_ it’s always done when she’s around, and you remember how thankful you are that that’s still possible, no matter how complicated it may be.

Because it will always be complicated, trying to figure out where she falls on a scale from Vers to Carol, and it will always be complicated wondering how much of her life, _your_ life she remembers. What’s simple, though, is knowing that some version of Carol is alive and well and out there being a hero, and that very idea can soothe you even on the most complicated of days.

“Where’s the Lieutenant?”

“Asleep.” She nods her head a few too many times, and it’s still a strange feeling, not knowing what to say to her. You and Carol Danvers shared many things, but never awkward silences. Whether you clear your throat intentionally or not, you’re not sure. “You need to take a shower. I don’t care who that blood belongs to, but it’s gross. Go clean up.” It’s hard work keeping the tone light, because you do care about the blood. Of course you do. Some of it is hers, some of it came out of her and you desperately want to know where she’s wounded, and how. And some of it? Some of it’s not hers and that worries you, too. She’s meant to be out there rescuing people, and you know that blood spills in war, but you remember just how damn human and _guilty_ she’d looked when she apologised to the Skrulls, and you hope she’s doing okay. Carol, though? She doesn’t seem concerned, so you put an ungodly amount of effort into trying to match her energy.

It’s a few minutes, a few minutes of trying to think about literally anything else, of trying to distract yourself, before you realise you should get her some clothes, a towel, something. And it’s a second of lying to yourself that you don’t remember where they are before you grab the jeans she’d apparently stolen from a mannequin seven months ago, and that stupid Nine Inch Nails shirt. The longest part of the whole process is standing outside the bathroom door, hearing the water running and Carol humming softly, trying to force your hand to knock on the door or your voice to call out to her. Evidently, your body takes over because you hear her shouting to you to come in without even realising you’ve told her you’re there.

You’re so, so thankful in the moment for the thick blue shower curtain, because even knowing you’re in the same room as her right now, while she showers, feels like too much.

“I brought you some things. Uh, towels, clothes to change into.” You think she mumbles a thank you, and the steam hits you and makes you breathe a little easier, “I’d offer to clean your space suit, but I’m not convinced the damn thing wouldn’t break my machine.” Her laugh feels like it flows all the way through you, loud and sudden, and you want to tell her the joke wasn’t even funny, really, but she’s laughing and it makes you want to laugh and cry and tell her all the things you know you can’t.

“I’ll leave you to it.”

“No.” It’s quiet, but you know it was there and you’re still trying to work it out when she starts again. “Would you, uh, would you stay? Just, sit out there and talk to me while I’m in here? A brief catch-up on the last half a rotation, maybe? The highlights?” It’s funny, because ‘half a rotation’ is Vers, and you know that. It’s half a rotation of C-53 and it’s Vers and it reminds you of everything you know she still isn’t. But everything else, that’s Carol, who’s been gone from Earth for half a year, and you know it. And she really does want to know, so you don’t even hesitate before telling her about what Monica’s been up to since they last said goodbye. You don’t have much to update her on that’s not about Monica, you haven’t had a whole lot of interesting personal updates since 1989, if you’re honest, but you don’t mention it and you hope she doesn’t notice.

“Do you remember how we used to do this at base?” She’s interrupting a story, but you don’t think it’s malicious, and _she_ just asked _you_ if you remember something, so it doesn’t bother you as much as it should. “I mean, shower conversations? Even before, before anything else? We’d shower at the stalls, and whoever finished first would sit out there and talk to the other?”

“You know damn well I always finished first and had to wait for you.” She laughs again, and _God_ , you’ve missed that sound. You know there’s more to focus on, more important parts of her recollection, but you let yourself drown in that laugh for a little while. It can’t be forever though. “Before anything else?”

“Yeah.” And it’s one word but you think maybe it tells you everything you need to know.

“So, you remember?”

“Yup.” It’s too quick, the way she blurts out the next part, but it’s one hundred percent Carol. “Not until I left though. I mean, I didn’t remember when I was here last. I would’ve said something, I swear. I didn’t really remember, fully remember, until pretty recently.” You want to ask her what the memories were exactly, what flashes made her realise exactly what you’d all lost, but you figure maybe she’ll tell you in her own time. Right now, the shower’s stopped running and she thrusts an arm out of the curtain, making a grabby-hand motion that makes your eyes roll and your heart swell.

“Get dressed. I’ll make some tea and we can talk about it, if you’d like?” The towel is in her hand and the door closed behind you before she can object, if she was going to, and you’re not sure how long it takes before she sits down at the kitchen table, but it feels like another seven months.

Her hair is damp, and of course she had to steal a white t-shirt, so when it drips, your eyes are drawn to the way her skin becomes oh so slightly visible. She’s a fucking space guardian, which apparently means she wasn’t wearing a bra under that stupid suit (maybe she was, you suppose there are reasons Carol could have chosen to be sitting at your table right now with no bra on and the idea alone does something to your brain that you can’t quite focus on yet), and she knows you’re looking at her but you can’t seem to stop.

That had always been the way, really.  

“We don’t have to talk about it, you know? It’s fine, if you don’t want to. If you can’t.”

“No, I-“ you catch her eye as she trails off and you could swear she’s blushing, “I want to. I guess I just don’t know where to start? The memories are pretty solid now, I think. I just don’t know how to talk about them. But I’m right, yeah? Tell me I’m right. I spent years on Hala having all of these vivid dreams. I don’t think I could stand it if this was one of those.”

“You’re not on Hala anymore.” She hasn’t said it yet. Hasn’t said what she needs confirmation of and you know you could get there first, but some part of you needs to hear it. Needs to be sure of what she’s asking. “You can talk about it. Anything you need to know, I’m here. Just ask.”

“We were.” She’s suddenly staring at everything but you, playing with the hem of her shirt and you can’t help but remember the first time she told you she loved you. How she’d overthought it and you could practically hear her heart beating out her chest. You’d known then, too, exactly what she was going to say, but you also knew how important it was to let her say it. “We weren’t just best friends, right? I mean, it’s not really a question, I remember some, uh, extra-friendly stuff, so I’m pretty sure I’m right. That we, we were together?”

“We were.”

“I’m sorry.” It breaks your heart. More than last time, really, because you know that it wasn’t her fault. You know that Carol didn’t choose what happened on that flight, and you know exactly why she had to leave again, and you don’t, you couldn’t, blame her. Not even for a second. But it breaks your heart because you feel thankful. You didn’t think you wanted an apology and you sure as hell know she doesn’t really owe you one, but something in you breaks because you’d needed to hear it.

“I know.”

“Why didn’t- no. I know why you didn’t tell me, I guess.” She finally takes a sip of her tea, and for a second you think it must be cold by now, and your brain betrays you by reminding you she could probably warm it up with her goddamn fire hands if she wanted to, because that’s who she is now. “Maybe I should’ve been able to work it out. I thought about that, you know? When I realised, I thought about the pictures and the memories and the word family, and I thought I must have been fucking stupid not to see it last time.” There’s a smile on her lips, but it’s not a happy one, and it’s not the first time in the last seven months you’ve thought about kissing her (it’s not even the first time you’ve thought about it in the last hour), but it’s the first time you realise she might be thinking about the same thing.

You don’t.

“There was a lot to take in. I tried… I tried not let it show. I didn’t want to overload you. It didn’t really matter, I guess.”

“It matters.”

“It does.”

“Does, uh, does the Lieutenant know? I can’t quite figure that out.” She looks at you like maybe she’s overstepping, and you want to yell at her because she thinks she’s invading on her own personal history. You want to yell anyway, because she’s so, so very nearly your Carol again. But she’s literal lightyears away from that so much of the time, and you can’t help but wonder what difference any of this makes.

“She does now. After you said goodbye last time, she turns to me and she says “Auntie Carol isn’t really my Auntie, huh?” and well,” you can’t help but smile at the memory, at the way Monica had looked at you, “well I didn’t really get it at first, so I say to her “you’ve seen us honey, and you’ve seen her. Of course she’s not your Auntie” and I swear, this kid _rolls her eyes_ at me and suddenly I realise what she meant. I guess she remembered little things from before, and she saw you again and it came back. What you really were to us, what we all were.”

The smile you get in return is softer than you could’ve ever hoped seven months ago, and you saw her then, filled with affection for Monica, but you can’t deny that it’s nice to see that look in her eyes that you know was always reserved for you.

“We never really told her when she was little. She talks. A lot. It’s not like she would’ve ever told anyone deliberately, probably would’ve stayed quiet about it if she was asked to, but we never wanted to put that burden on her.” Her eyes flash up at you on the word ‘we’, like the responsibility of loving a parent, of being a parent, hadn’t really dawned on her in all her contemplation of your relationship. “So you were Auntie Carol, and you guys loved each other just as fiercely as you would’ve with any other label.”

“She’s a great kid.” There’s a hesitation, but her hand creeps over to touch yours, and your fingertips are tingling with the need to grab tightly, but you let her set the pace. “She’s amazing and I wish I’d been able to be here. It’s weird, you know? Talos, and Soren? They keep saying how being apart so long meant their daughter only had half of her parents. And I get that, and I know it’s different, but it doesn’t seem like Monica got half of anything? She just… I wish she’d had double, you know?” Fuck letting her set the pace, you curl your fingers into hers and the way she squeezes back lets you know you made the right move.

“Me too. Mostly, though? Mostly I wish you’d had us.” It’s the first time you’ve let yourself say it, admit out loud that even more than losing her, and then losing her again in an entirely different way, you hate what she lived through. “You have us now, if, well, not if you want us, because you’re stuck with us either way, but however you _can_ have us. Even if that just means a place to come and shower off alien blood.” You know your voice betrays you, that it’s nowhere near as light as the words coming out of your mouth, but she has the decency not to comment on it.

“I don’t know how that is, though. How I can keep you. Both of you. I have to be out there.” She loves helping people, she always has, and it’s one of the reasons you fell in love with her in the first place, but right now you know you both wish she didn’t care about the rest of the world. (Not just the world, the universe, maybe?)

“Do you remember when Monica learned about colours?” You know she’s looking at you but you don’t wait before continuing. “We, or one of us, I don’t remember, taught her all about mixing them? You know, blue and red makes purple and all of that.” The memory of just a few hours ago, of bile rising in your throat while you tried to work out if all of that blood was Carol’s, threatens to resurface so you barrel on, “she kept asking about all of these weird combinations, and we ended up just pulling out some paints to work it all out. And every time we didn’t know what the outcome was going to be, she’d look at us, always a smartass beyond her years, and she’d say”

“Well it has to make something.”

“Exactly. I don’t know what this is going to make, you being out there and up there and wherever the hell you are, saving everyone, and us being here. But it has to make something, right? Maybe we should just… grab the paints and try it.” And you don’t know why you’re suggesting it because you’re sure it’s stupid but you hope she says yes. You need her to say yes.

“Is that fair? To you guys? I mean, I know that I love you. Both of you.” She grins at you, dumb and cocky and like you’ve seen a million times, “and I’m pretty certain you guys like me back.” It disappears just as quickly as it arrived and you miss it, you miss it and you don’t know why it’s gone but you do all at the same time. “But can I really be gone, be doing all of this, and expect you to sit around and be here to help me shower off the alien blood?”

“I didn’t realise helping you shower had been an option.” She looks at you like she can’t believe you’re _flirting_ with her right now and you can’t believe it either, but you’re both smiling and it all seems so obvious to you. “You’re not expecting anything, Carol. You’re not asking for anything, but even if you were, I’m sure we’d say yes. We’re a family, and we love you. That’s never changed. I’m not saying we’re going to sit here and wait around for you all day, and I’m not saying our lives here aren’t going to carry on the same way they have for the last six years. But when you do come home, whenever that is and for however long, there’s a space for you. There always has been.”

You want to kiss her. Again. Of course you do, because you’ve wanted to kiss Carol Danvers since the day you met her and it only got worse once you realised that you could. She gets there first though, almost. Maybe it’s not exactly what you wanted, but she raises your still-joint hands and there’s not even a second of hesitation before she kisses the back of your hand. You don’t realise your eyes have closed until you open them, and she’s smiling at you the same way she has so many times before. She smiled at you this way the first time you kissed, the first time your hands wandered. You distinctly remember this smile, although maybe a little more smug, the first time she’d fallen down next to you in bed, and again when she woke you up the next morning. It’s the smile she gave you that afternoon, when she finally worked up the courage to tell you she loved you, bouncing on the balls of her feet. It’s the way she’s smiling at you right now and you know the same stupid smile is probably mirrored across your own face, but you can’t seem to care because your hands aren’t joined anymore, but hers is on your cheek and her forehead is against yours.

“Can I?”

And your brain screams. It screams _no_ and it screams _not yet_ and it screams a million other things at you, but it screams _yes_ the loudest, so you kiss the heel of her hand, and maybe you whisper “yes” or maybe it’s “please” but either way it does the trick and she’s kissing you and you know that she’s the one who glows, but for a second you wonder if you might be able to, too.

“Can you stay? Tonight, I mean?” She raises an eyebrow at you, and dodges when you swat her arm. “Not… that’s not what I’m asking.” You don’t know if it is or not, if that’s what you want or not, but it doesn’t matter because she’s up out of her seat and pouring out the mugs of cold tea. “You don’t want Monica to find out you visited and didn’t say hello, right? Because she’ll find her way up there to yell at you about it, you know that.” She’s smiling at you, still silent, as she offers you her hand and pulls you out of your seat.

“I can stay. I’ll have to leave tomorrow though.” She seems to consider her words for a moment while she stares at you and joins her arms behind your neck. “Not ‘til late. I can spend most of the day here. Hang out?” It’s Thursday tomorrow, but it’s her first visit back and you think maybe reminding her that your child has to go to school isn’t important right now. “Catch up with my favourite Lieutenant. And my favourite Captain.”

You haven’t discussed where she’s sleeping, but neither one of you even thinks about it before you head to the bedroom together, hands joined. You throw her some pyjama bottoms, and she insists on keeping on that stupid shirt, which might be for the best because otherwise she’d have to change and you have self-restraint, but you’re worried you’d throw caution to the wind. She’s lying there, back on her side of the bed, staring at the ceiling when you get back from the bathroom, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world to slip in beside her.

“I know this is just… the beginning. A beginning. But I like this. I like _you_.”

“Me too.”

“It has to make something, right?” She turns her head to look at you, and her eyes are so filled with hope that you know, somehow you just know this is going to work. Even if it’s confusing, even when you miss her like crazy and even when you wish you just had a normal goddamn wife who worked a 9-5, it’ll work. You think about the colours and the concoctions your girls had put together that day, you think about paint covering their clothes and their faces. You don’t think about the black blood on Carol’s suit. She’s staring at the ceiling again, so you lean forward and kiss her temple.

“It has to make something.”


End file.
